I thought I was strong enough to handle it.
I thought I could keep my distance.
I was wrong.
I can't keep him out of my head.
I can't keep him out of my dreams.
And I am terrified of what that means.
I am at the office by 7:15 on Monday morning.
I am a mess.
I haven't slept more than three hours a night for days. I'm running on caffeine and the terror that I will say or do something to reveal the state of my complete and utter mental breakdown to Mario Conti or one of his brothers.
My solution has been to overprepare.
I have spent the entire weekend buried in documents, creating a comprehensive strategic plan for the Conti review that is so thorough and brilliant no one will notice I look like I haven't slept in a week.
It's a good plan.
A solid plan.
A plan that will save my firm and keep me out of Mario Conti's bed.
That is the most important part.
I'm so focused on my computer screen, I barely hear the knock.
“Come in,” I call, still typing.
The door opens.
“I can come back if you’re busy,” a man says.
I look up.
Diego Conti stands in the doorway with one hand resting against the frame and a coffee cup in the other. He is the only Conti brother I met last week who did not immediately make me feel like I was being measured for either usefulness or disposal.
That doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.
It just means he hides it better.
Or maybe he doesn’t feel the need to make a point of it.
He is broad like the others, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with the same unmistakable family features, though his are arranged into something less severe. Not soft. No Conti man could be called soft. But Diego has an… easier face. A little more humor at the mouth. A little less sharpened edge in the way he stands.
He wears a dark sweater under a jacket instead of a suit, which somehow makes him look more approachable.
“Diego,” I say, sitting back.
“Ah, you finally stopped calling us all Mr. Conti.”
I laugh. “Your brother was right. It was getting confusing.”
His mouth curves. “Coffee?”
